Lost in Suburbia: Making the breast of a bad situation

Wednesday

Sep 5, 2018 at 9:42 AMSep 5, 2018 at 9:42 AM

The day started like any other. I showered, got dressed, walked the dog, and then headed over to the local coffee shop to get a beverage.

But as I waited on line to give my order, Satan suddenly stabbed me in the back. Or rather, the boob. I had bent over to retrieve something I dropped on the floor, when one of the underwires suddenly burst out the material like a ninja warrior, spearing me in the chest.

“Yow!” I shrieked, grabbing at my breast like a 14-year-old boy getting to first base.

“Are you okay?” asked the concerned barista.

“I’ve been stabbed by my bra!” I cried. The other coffee patrons at the tables looked over to see what all the commotion was about. Ignoring them, I reached down into my shirt and started wrestling with my bra to remove the offending underwire. Locating the weapon of breast destruction, I grabbed it and yanked it hard, withdrawing it from the neck of my shirt.

“Aha!” I yelled, holding it up for all to see.

The other coffee patrons in line took a noticeable step back from the crazy lady waving her underwire around like evidence in a murder trial.

“It just broke free of the material,” I exclaimed in astonishment. “I’m going to sue for assault and, uh, bra-ttery.”

Truth be told, this was actually not the first time this had happened to me. Ever since I was 15, I’ve had to wear bras with as much metal as a maximum security prison in order to support my generously endowed tatas. I had gotten used to setting off the metal detectors in airports and museums and having wands waved around my chest to determine if I was packing heat or just packing boobs. While most of the bras I wore were indestructible, occasionally some underwire just wasn’t up to the challenge and after some period of use, would just snap from the pressure.

Now, if these bras were pretty and comfortable, I would have forgiven them their occasional explosive tendencies. But most of the ones I’ve found, while supportive, are the equivalent of a medieval torture device. So, when one turns on me, I show it no mercy.

Grasping the underwire, I took it and bent it into a pretzel, then threw it on the ground and stomped on it repeatedly. Finally, I picked it up and tossed it in the trash can.

“Take that you stupid underwire,” I roared.

Out of breath from my ordeal, I returned to my place in line and approached the counter.

But before I could order, the barista handed me a cup of coffee.

“Here,” she said. “It’s on the house. It’s DECAF!”

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